


Traces

by Azile_Teacup



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:42:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azile_Teacup/pseuds/Azile_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: experiments by evil scientists</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traces

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: torture, violence

“You have the merchandise I need?” Arthur asks.

“Yes, of course. With the retainer you paid and the promised fee, we’ve procured only the best for you, Mr Arthur.”

Arthur nods and waves the man on in front of him, as if giving him permission to continue. Considering the fact that Arthur was brought in a blacked out car, under guard, and hand-cuffed until this point, his acting as if he’s entirely in control of the situation is off putting. For the people he’s buying from, at least. For Arthur, he is completely in control so the situation is perfectly acceptable.

He’s lead deeper underground, through the winding passages he’s already scoped out. He knows he’s being taken to a certain room, deep within the compound, and he knows what he’ll find when they arrive. It’s still a shock, though, when they step into a sterile room, to see Eames laid out on a metal table, stripped to a grim pair of underpants, shivering in the air conditioning.

“He doesn’t look up to much,” Arthur says, going to inspect Eames.

He finds bruises, deep, purple and green, across Eames’ chest and hips, a dislocated shoulder, track marks in his elbow, stitches at his hairline, unbandaged. Arthur tuts as if he’s not happy with the state of him for professional reasons.

“I can assure you, he is the best.”

“Show me. I paid enough to see, surely?”

The man hesitates and starts making phone calls. Arthur takes the moment of distraction to check Eames’ back and the soles of his feet. He suspects a broken rib or two, judging from Eames’ body’s reaction to being shifted, and the soles of his feet are slashed. That will complicate things. Then again, Eames has a high tolerance for pain. The shoulder will probably be the most problematic. Arthur taps three times on the table, loud enough that Yusuf will pick it up through the miniscule ear piece, and hopes that he and Ariadne are in place.

“If you pay another ten percent we can take you three levels deep and show you what we have been working on. You understand that this is classified and copyrighted, this is research material that very few people-“

Arthur hands over the money and lies on the sofa. He allows the goon to hook him up to the PASIV, trusting Yusuf to have his back, and then he’s under. He finds himself in a room much the same as the one he just left, with the same goon.

“This way, sir.”

Arthur follows further into the earth, deeper and deeper until their footsteps echo. The feeling of being so deep is purposeful, and Arthur finds himself almost admiring the architect. Then he remembers that Eames designed this, or at least had a large input in terms of the psychology of it, and smiles. Of course he admires Eames’ work, he always does. The man is thorough, Arthur likes that.

“Here we are. This is where we keep him. We used a series of rooms specifically designed with this project in mind and slowly destroyed the identity that he came in with. Understand, this man is a criminal, not just espionage and corporate theft but a hardened criminal who’s served time and done things you can’t imagine. This is just another kind of prison.”

“Like Guantanamo,” Arthur says, thinking of the man he put there and the one he rescued three years later who hasn’t been the same since.

“Exactly,” the man says, pleased with the comparison, “This man changed his skin like a chameleon, it was difficult to find anything that was stable about him, he just shifted as soon as we destroyed anything we thought essential to himself. But, eventually, he became what you see before you.”

Arthur looks at the screen. It could be Eames, he doesn’t know. The person lying on the bed is neither man nor woman, neither black nor white, neither one thing or another. They shift between a complex series of images, barely discernible, a sort of constant trembling that makes the observer blink and when you look back, the image has changed. Arthur breathes out softly. It’s been too long.

“How will this work? He’s useless to me like that,” Arthur says, allowing irritation through.

“Give me a character, and I will show you. I have a form, if you hold on a moment…”

The man rifles through a briefcase and pulls a sheaf of papers out, handing two double-sided A4 sheets to Arthur along with a pen. Arthur looks at it and snorts. There’s a list of things to complete; physical description, likes/dislikes, personality traits (with a list of examples), personal history, basic biography, etc.

“This is incredibly basic,” Arthur complains, but he fills it in quickly, randomly.

“Yes, we assume that you will be using something more highly developed. For now, this will serve to demonstrate potential.”

Arthur hands the sheet over and the man goes round a corner. On the screen the door opens and the shape on the bed is handed the sheets. The man stands over Eames for a while then takes the paper away, looking right at the camera and nodding to Arthur. Arthur follows him into the room. By the time he arrives, Eames has been put under and the man is waiting, IV in hand, for Arthur.

It’s a café, in Paris, which means it’s Eames’ dream. Or rather- Arthur looks up as a shadow falls across his paper and folds it up, smiling at Hannah.

“Hello, are you Arthur? I’ve been told to meet you here,” Hannah says.

Arthur pushes out a chair with his foot in invitation and Hannah sits. It’s not really Hannah, not completely. Arthur only met her once but he can see where he went wrong in the description. Her lips are too full, her smile too bright, her eyes not intelligent enough. There’s also vague confusion that Arthur can sense, and that must be all that’s left of Eames.

Arthur asks questions as if he’s vetting Hannah for a job, aware that they’re being watched. He can’t spot the goon anywhere, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t watching. Arthur isn’t trying too hard to locate him. He gets twenty minutes with Hannah, and then he wakes up in the cell.

“So?” the goon asks.

“Impressive. I asked her all sorts of questions and she could only answer with information I provided. I asked her about the identities you supplied me with previously, the ones you said belonged to this man, and there was no recognition. I am a little concerned about the simplicity and the confusion.”

“We’re exploring options there. We have him out for three clients before the dates you put down, which will give us time to work out the kinks. We’re experimenting with chemicals and sleep patterns to perfect the specimen.”

“A perfect forge. It certainly has a certain… elegance.”

“Indeed. Now-“

The man’s head goes up and Arthur smiles, softly, dangerously. The man doesn’t notice, already tapping his ear piece and speaking sharply to the projections on the other end. Arthur waits, patient.

“I’m afraid we have a breach, sir.”

“I hope you don’t suspect me,” Arthur says, letting iron enter his tone.

“Oh no, you were fully checked. We’ve had a few problems with hackers who are under the impression this is an animal testing lab. Excuse me, I must deal with this. It is probably just one of the guards trying to reach me, I should try to make contact.”

Arthur nods and the man walks briskly away. Arthur moves fast after that, knowing his time is limited before the dream shatters. He assumes that the goon tried waking up. He hopes Yusuf arrived in time. He ducks into the cell and shoots Eames in the head, then waits for the kick.

He wakes back in the lab, to Yusuf and Ariadne holding down Eames, who’s bucking and screaming. Arthur leaps off the couch and removes both his and Eames’ IVs before getting in Eames’ sightline. Eames relaxes, still tense and nervous but no longer fighting.

“You were in Paris,” Eames says, voice higher than usual, more uncertain.

It’s not entirely unexpected, but it certainly makes things harder.

“Yes, I was. Hello, Hannah,” Arthur says, “we need to move.”

“Okay.”

Eames swings his legs off the table and gets onto the floor, crying out when his sore feet come in contact. He’s got thick socks on now, which Arthur assumes is Ariadne’s doing. She wraps him in a bathrobe, too, and then ducks under his arm, tying the belt.

“You can have clothes later,” Ariadne promises.

“What about the guards?” Arthur asks, already discarding the guns from the two who are under.

“The closest are out, thanks to the gas, but beyond that, I can’t say,” Yusuf says.

Arthur takes a moment to check his ammo, and then he moves them out. He puts Ariadne and Eames between him and Yusuf, and leads the way through memorised passages. For five minutes they meet nothing but guards who are fast asleep, but then they bump into one who is awake. Arthur ducks back around the corner, passes one gun off to Ariadne and the other to Yusuf and then watches, waiting for his moment, before slipping up behind the guard and breaking his neck.

They only meet three more and they’re dealt with in a similar stealthy manner, but then the garage is guarded and Arthur is forced to start shooting. Which means the alarm is raised and they only have five minutes to make it to the compound’s fence, by Arthur’s calculations. He lays cover fire and Ariadne and Yusuf run, but Eames stops half way to the car, as if he’s forgotten who he is. Which is highly likely, seeing as Hannah was a very simple scribble on A4 paper and was so flimsy.

Arthur ducks, tackles Eames and drags him the rest of the way. He thanks the CIA for bullet proof cars and clings to Eames, Ariadne shooting wildly out of the window, as Yusuf drives them out. They just skim under the lowering gate and then they’re out, above ground.

“Faster, Yusuf,” Arthur says.

He gets up onto the seat and gets his own gun out of the window, ready to shoot them a way through. The front barrier is down but not heavily guarded, seeing as the front is a warehouse of no interest whatsoever. Arthur shoot three of the guards and then they’re through, sailing across the desert.

“Right. We have ten minutes,” Arthur says, “let’s get Eames back before then.”

Yusuf pulls off the road and they bump over sand for a bit before coming to a halt at a small, rickety building. Arthur drags Eames inside, still in socks and underpants and a robe, and pushes him onto the sofa waiting for them. Arthur crouches in front of him.

“Hi Eames.”

Arthur waits for Eames’ empty eyes to flick to him. Eames’ head tilts to one side, curious, and then he reaches out and touches Arthur’s cheek.

“Hello Darling,” Eames croaks, “I kept you.”

“Yeah, you did. Well done.”

“Darling.”

“Yeah. Do you know who you are?”

“I’m… I belong to Darling,” Eames says, earnest and gentle.

“Okay. A name?”

“I’m…” Eames eyes shut and move under his lids, a smile spreading over his face, “Idiot, Blueberry, Babysitter, Uncle, Plonker, Honey… Hannah.”

“No, not Hannah.”

“Not Hannah. I’m yours.”

“Yes. Do you remember your name?”

“No.”

Arthur takes Eames through the little things first, basic biography as far as he knows it (not far), history as far as he was part of it (limited), and personality as deep as he can (extensive). Eames listens and tries, but he’s still lost.

“Do you remember Sweden?” Arthur asks, eventually, sitting at Eames’ side, carding a hand through his dirty hair, “the sea was so blue.”

“Diving boards,” Eames says, “yeah. And jellyfish. And… Batman.”

“Gothenburg, not Gotham,” Arthur says, laughing, “but, yes, you did insist it was the same thing, even then.”

Eames nods, slowly, and finally comes up with a name Arthur can accept.

“James,” Eames says, “I’m James.”

“Close enough,” Arthur says, “okay, we need to go.”

He pulls Eames up and helps him back outside, smiling when he finds Ariadne, legs shoulder width apart, dark glasses over her face. She grins at him.

“Anything to report?” Arthur asks.

“Nope. All clear, boss.”

“Yusuf?”

Yusuf appears round the side of the house. Arthur takes a gun back and breathes, slowly and deeply.

“If I’m wrong about this…” he says, “we’ve been here… it feels…”

“If you’re wrong, I’ll blame you completely,” Yusuf says.

“Wrong about what?” Eames asks, “Arthur, what are you-“

Arthur shoots him first.

“Did he remember?” Yusuf asks.

“Just James.”

Ariadne winces, so she’s next. Then Yusuf, then himself.

 

 

 

 

 

Eames wakes slowly, eyes caked shut with gunk, head aching and throat parched. He pries his eyes open, tearing out an eyelash, and peers around. He’s in a shed, and all around him are people. Some are dead, some are sleeping. Four are awake and watching him.

“We delayed you waking up a few minutes,” Cobb says, “weren’t sure how you’d surface.”

“My names is not James,” Eames says, voice rasping in his throat.

“No,” Arthur says, “I thought it would… hoped it’d do.”

Eames nods.

“What happened?” he asks, finally, sitting up and closing his eyes as the room spins.

“You decided to do a job for a man you shouldn’t have done a job for,” Arthur snaps.

“Odin,” Eames says, nodding, “stupid name. Stupid man. I remember. I owed him, he paid well, and he promised me all sorts of things. My own island, endless women.”

Arthur snorts, passing Eames a water bottle.

“We have a bit of time,” Cobb says.

“Right,” Ariadne says.

Eames sips the water slowly.

“How long?” he asks.

“Three days, this time. They’ve been taking you under, layer by layer, on and off, for almost two weeks.”

“Took your time.”

“You took the job! You designed your own prison and told them how to dismantle a man.”

“It was theoretical,” Eames defends.

“Yeah, well, they decided to test the theory. On you.”

“Makes sense. I’m the best, top candidate for the experiment. Did it work?”

“No. Your forges are better.”

Eames grins, catching Arthur by the back of the neck and dragging him closer so they’re forehead to forehead, then kisses him.

“Stop that,” Yusuf says, “I’m done fiddling with this, they should be out for a few more hours but I can’t guarantee much more time. We should pack up and get out.”

“Did you use your own identity, Arthur?” Eames asks, getting off the bed.

It’s more of a table than a bed, and his captors have sliced his feet open up here, too. He has to pause and close his eyes, mind screaming memories at him of escape attempts, of their torture.

“I was helping his son write a theoretical paper on the ethics of torture using the PASIV,” Eames says, “and that lead to a paper on the theoretical possibility of making a clean-slate forger, like that TV show. Dollhouse. Having an empty vessel, all hollowed out for whoever to put anything in. It was theoretical, they were supposed to be academics.”

“His son is. Odin works for the CIA, or used to. He went rogue about two years ago,” Arthur says, acting as support for Eames, half dragging him out of the shed.

Eames’ eyes protest the light outside and he has to close them again, lean into Arthur, dizziness washing over him.

“I made myself forget who you were,” Eames says, “I didn’t have you to hold onto, I lost… I gave in. I gave up. Without you, I’m just… I…”

“Shut up, Mr Eames,” Arthur says.

Eames breathes a bit shakily, but nods and gets moving. His shoulders ache. In fact, he aches all over. Nothing’s broken here, though.

“Remind me not to try to run with broken ribs,” Eames says, hobbling in the direction Arthur steers him, “hurts too much.”

“Saito is sending a helicopter,” Arthur says, “Cobb came out of retirement, Yusuf came from Mombasa, Ariadne skipped an exam.”

“Remind me to thank them when I have access to my bank account.”

“You have the world wrapped around your little finger. You know I would have found you, but it certainly helped that Scot sent me a cryptic email telling me you were in trouble with his father. How do you make people like you? You’re the bane of my existence.”

“You love me, really.”

“I do.”

Eames leans into Arthur, pressing his face into his neck, getting his fill of the other man. The more he breathes him in, the more time he spends with Arthur, the more he remembers himself. It’s like lights going on, starting from Sweden and rushing out, out, out, lighting up moments and memories and images, of Arthur, mostly. Eames breathes deeply and remembers.


End file.
